


Shadows of the Mind

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashback, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, OT3, Other, PTSD, Post Reichenbach, Post return, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock, listen to me. I can only handle one crisis at a time and it’s not your turn right now. I need you to calm down. JOHN needs you to calm down.”</p><p>A prequel to a fill I posted on the Kink Meme. The original prompt asked for John having a flashback at a crime scene, and Sherlock calming him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt fill will be posted, but could use a bit of polishing before I put it up here. This is the second writing for this set, but the first chronologically.
> 
> Huge thanks to Small_Hobbit for Brit-picking!
> 
> I don't own any of these characters. No disrespect intended, no money made.

An emotionally charged week of arguments and negotiations, followed by Greg going on a series of overnight stake-outs, had left everyone ready for his days off to be days in. The first one had been spent, quite necessarily, in the bedroom or sprawled in front of the match between dueling laptops. This morning found him on the sofa again, caught up on sleep, freshly showered and with coffee to hand. It would have been perfect, if not for the lanky figure standing on the coffee table to scan the bookshelves with laser focused eyes. 

He decided to try distraction. “Is John up yet?” 

“Nope. Not so surprising, given the backlog he has to make up. He only went to bed after I kicked him off the sofa, night before last.”

That didn’t sound good. Except for the occasional pub night, or when there was a case on, John preferred to keep to a regular sleep schedule. “Nightmares again?” Maybe the most recent conflict had left things more strained than Greg thought. John had been prone to rough nights during the upheaval of Sherlock’s ‘death’, subsequent resurrection, and the difficult early days of their non-traditional relationship.

Sherlock hummed vaguely, stepping down to pick up and drain Greg’s coffee before dragging a desk chair toward the bookshelves. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s feeling well enough to have hidden my cigarettes again.” A thunderous scowl was belied by the faintest twinkle of his glass green eyes, confirming Greg’s suspicion that Sherlock kept the disputed packet around expressly for this little game. The actual number of cigarettes in the pack never changed, and nicotine patches were replenished regularly. Greg turned back to his paper before remembering: mousetraps. Hidden in a few strategic locations, including in the deep recesses of the shelf where John claimed to have seen the pests. Damn Sherlock’s peanut butter and mold experiment, anyway. Greg opened his mouth to speak a warning even as that long body stretched impossibly longer, rooting behind an Egyptian paperweight. A loud smack sounded from the shadows. Sherlock yelped and jerked away, sending the sculpture plummeting into his forehead before shattering on the wood floor. The dressing gown flared out as he tilted on the chair, arms flailing for balance, then went over backwards with a muffled thud. Blood was already dripping down his face as Lestrade jumped up from the sofa.

“God, Sherlock, only you could hit yourself in the face with a fucking sphinx.” He grabbed up a handful of tissues. “Here, hold this against your head while I get John’s kit and some ice. We’ll get you bandaged before he wakes up, spare us both the lecture.”

He turned toward the kitchen and saw that, for the second time that morning, he was too late. John was awake and clinging to the scarred worktop.

“Never dull with him, is it? The trap worked; we just caught the biggest mouse in all of London,” Greg joked. “Pass me the stuff; I’ll do the honors this time.”

The smaller man didn’t respond to his words with as much as a look. He stared fixedly at Sherlock, hazel eyes wide in an ashen face.

“John? Hey, don’t look like that. He’s fine, just whacked himself about a bit.” John’s jaw was clenched hard as if he was holding back words that couldn’t be borne aloud. Lestrade laid a hand on his shoulder, felt the light tremor that ran through the solid frame. A quick squeeze and shake elicited nothing more than a ragged moan. Sherlock was narrow-eyeing John with the bloody tissues pressed to his head but John’s gaze hadn’t shifted when Sherlock did, instead staying fixed at some indistinct spot on the floor. Suddenly he collapsed to the floor, curling in on himself and whispering a litany of “Sherlock” and “No”. Sherlock cursed pungently and Greg turned to him in shock.

“What the hell? Sherlock?” 

Long fingers gestured to the trembling man on the floor. “He’s having a flashback. Because of the PTSD his therapist-” the title was an epithet- “said was cured. Mycroft said he never even had it. And I...I should’ve SEEN it, Greg. I should’ve KNOWN.” Another string of profanity poured from him as he began to pace the sitting room. 

“A flashback?” But this was John Watson. Solid, sensible, practical John. “PTSD? John? Our John?” 

“He was diagnosed with it after Afghanistan. But he was supposed to be over it.” Sherlock raked his fingers through his curls, whirling around to glare at Greg. “He was supposed to be OVER IT, Greg.”

Emotions. Never Sherlock’s strong suit, whether his own or someone else’s; Greg knew who was going to be in charge here. He knelt and wrapped his arms about their anguished partner even as he fixed Sherlock with the look he saved for very junior constables or intransigent witnesses. “Sherlock, listen to me. I can only handle one crisis at a time and it’s not your turn right now. I need you to calm down. JOHN needs you to calm down.”

A grief soaked whisper from the man he held. “I tried, Greg. I tried, I told him, but he jumped. He jumped, he’s gone. Blood. There was so much blood. All over his face, all over the pavement. So much blood.” 

Sherlock stood before them, still and pale. “He was supposed to be over this,” he insisted.

“I don’t think it’s something that gets cured.” He was a bit surprised that Sherlock didn’t know this. “Stress can bring it back, and he spent most of last week afraid he was going to lose us. Look, if this is a flashback to...that...seeing you covered in blood isn’t going to help. Go get cleaned up.” Sherlock blinked, then gathered himself together, focusing his energy on the task assigned. He nodded and hurried toward the bathroom. Greg turned his attention back to John. “John? John, come on back to us now. Sherlock’s okay, he just hit his head and fell off the chair.”

“He jumped. I tried to stop him...he jumped.” It occurred to Greg that this conversation wasn’t any easier the second time around.

“I know you did, but that wasn’t today. Sherlock isn’t dead. He’s here in the flat, he just had an accident.” Greg ran a hand over the taut muscles, trying to get them to relax. He was sure they were going to ache for days. He wracked his brain for something to help break John back to reality. “John. Let’s stand up now, and go and sit on the sofa. Come on, up you get.” He stood, hauled the broken man to his feet by main force, and began herding him to the sofa. Once there,  
he draped the tartan throw over hunched shoulders and settled his arm over all. John leaned slightly into him, and Greg decided to take it as a victory.

Sherlock came back in with a plaster on his forehead and buttoning a fresh shirt. He sat on the coffee table with his knees touching John’s.

“Non-threatening touch. Good. Try talking to him. Use his name.” Greg was going with what he remembered from his brief training in mental health response; not something he was called on to practice these days. Dead bodies required a different sort of crisis management.

Sherlock’s voice started out a bit reedy from concern, but settled quickly as he focused on his task. “John. Look at me, John. Please. I’m right here, right here in the flat.” His silver eyes flickered to Greg, silently asking if he was doing this right. Greg nodded, raising his eyebrows in a manner he hoped indicated “yes, keep going”. Years of questioning witnesses had left the older man sensitive to the shift of attention from one thing to another, and he had seen the subtle shivers stop at Sherlock’s words. He reached over to take John’s near hand in his free one, hoping Sherlock would get the hint. He did, wrapping his long fingers over John’s blunt ones, trying to soothe the tightly clenched fist. It relaxed by degrees under his ministrations, but then John began to drag in great gulps of air, scarcely exhaling before the next gasping inhalation. 

Greg squeezed his arm tighter, pulling John closer. “John, stop that now. You need to slow it down, love, or you’ll pass out. Breathe to my count. In for one, two, three. Hold. Out for one, two, three. Hold. Good, that’s good, now again.” Lestrade noticed that Sherlock was matching his rhythm as well, his exhalations stirring in John’s hair. He continued to count. “Breathe in, one, two...” As John’s gasps slowed, Lestrade added a fourth beat, then a fifth. “Good, John. Good. Look at me now. Tell me my name?”

“Greg?” His voice was saturated with confusion and anguish, his eyes flickering about the flat and never quite focusing on any one thing.

“That’s right, John. I’m here. Tell me what you see.”

“Sherlock. He, he jumped, he jumped off the roof and I –“

Sherlock’s voice cut across John’s rising panic. “No, John, I’m right here.”

Hazel eyes snapped to mossy green, blinked, widened. The shorter man didn’t so much leap, as fall from the sofa into Sherlock’s arms. “Oh my God. My God. Sherlock. You were...but you aren’t...I...what the hell? I saw you, you fell off the chair, but it wasn’t, and you were...you were...but you aren’t, you’re here.” His hitching breath slowed once more as Greg rested his hand on the back of the bowed neck.

The dark head nodded. “All right, John. All right.” Long pale hands soothed up and down John’s back. His words were matter-of-fact, betraying none of the helplessness he had felt when his blogger, his friend, this essential piece of himself and Lestrade, had been lost inside his own head. “It was a flashback, John. Seeing me fall, seeing me with blood on my face brought it all back into your mind.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who should be saying that, not you. Never you.”

Convinced that the crisis was past, Greg said “Right, okay. You’re back with us. Still look a bit shocky to me, though, and I know I’m feeling rattled. I’m going...”

As Greg got to his feet, John’s hand shot out and clutched at his wrist. “NO! Don’t leave!”

“Hey, now.” He ran his opposite hand over the grasping fingers. “No, John. No. I’m going to make some tea, right over there in the kitchen. That’s all. I’m just going into the kitchen.” Greg stepped back, then into the kitchen when there was no further reaction. He’d never been so conscious of tea-making sounds before, clicking kettle and rattling mugs, trying for casual but loud enough so John would know he hadn’t left, would stay grounded in the here and now. He added some shortbread to the tray and, on a burst of inspiration, sectioned a couple of oranges. Smell would probably help, too. 

When he returned to the sitting room, John was nestled deeply into the corner of the sofa, shivering again. Greg settled the tray, then retrieved the duvet from their bedroom. “Budge up a bit there, now.” Inserting himself between the sofa and John’s body, he pulled the other man backwards until he was cradled against Greg’s chest, pulled the duvet over them. “All right, John?”

John nodded wearily. “Getting there, yeah. I’m –“

Greg cut him off. “The next word had better not be ‘sorry’.”

John blinked, tensed at Greg’s strained tone, then sighed and opted not to say anything. 

“I mean it, John. Nobody gets to beat themselves up over this. None of us. It’s happened, and will need talking over and what-all, but that’s not for right now when we’re all crashing from adrenaline.” He knew that John wouldn’t want to talk while his emotions were still so raw, but would need reassurance and comfort until he was ready to do so. “So here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to turn on the telly; I’m sure we can find a nature show or something.” Something non-stressful to engage John’s mind until he either settled down enough to talk, or fell asleep; probably the latter given the shadows under his eyes. “Sherlock, hand me the remote, then get your laptop.” He pointed to the item in question. ”Start figuring out what our next steps are, building us a response plan.” John needed them near, Sherlock needed occupation. Research seemed a reasonable compromise. Soon enough, John was dozing heavily in his arms while David Attenborough explained the mating behaviors of equatorial birds and Sherlock clicked softly around the internet. The events of the day would force them to regroup, discuss and plan. But for now, a momentary peace settled over the flat. Greg closed his eyes, and savored it.


	2. Guiding Him Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a plan is supposed to make it easier.

Later, Lestrade forgave the rest of the investigating team for not catching on sooner. The scene was a disturbing one, easily the most grisly he’d ever called his partners for. Add in the oppressive heat and the small size of the remains, and the setting became downright hellish. One whey-faced recruit had already been excused by a sharp-eyed colleague, but John wasn’t as well known to this team. The stillness of his body, the ashen and sweat-streaked complexion, the silence with which he examined the reeking mess weren’t so very different from what the rest of the team was exhibiting. But Lestrade had witnessed the single other incident, so many months and therapy sessions ago, that marked the recurrence of PTSD long thought to be in remission. The different postures of John Watson were well known to him and he recognized that something was very wrong, even if it took him a moment to catch up and figure out exactly what it was.

“Williams. Where’s Williams got to?” John’s command voice snapped out, startling the officers processing the area nearest the bodies. Peters was answering him before Lestrade could cross the room or even say anything.

“Williams isn’t on this team, Dr. Watson. Hasn’t been for weeks; did you mean Ruggiano?” Her confused grin faltered at the hardness in that usually affable face.

“Damn it, where is Williams?” 

“Dr. Watson? Are you alright?” She was reaching for John’s shoulder when Lestrade caught her wrist and pulled her away.

He shook his head, muttered “Don’t touch him, Peters. I think he’s having a flashback. Could you clear the room please, and get Mr. Holmes from upstairs?”

“Of course, Sir.” She shifted easily from gathering evidence to evacuating the room, murmuring to each person in turn and keeping everything smooth and calm. Lestrade made a mental note of her competence and spared a moment to hope nobody would poach her out from under him. Then he crouched down on the opposite side of the bodies, watching John carefully. Up close, the smell was overpowering. 

“He was right behind us.” John addressed the empty room in a tight voice. “All right. Nothing we can do here, just...” The door opened to admit Sherlock, clicked loudly as he closed it behind him. John’s head swiveled toward the sound. “Snipers! Everybody get down!” His right hand fumbled at his hip momentarily, then dipped under his shirt at the small of his back. Greg’s eyes widened and Sherlock hastened to reassure him.

“It’s at home, he’s not armed. What triggered him?”

“Christ, I don’t know. The smell? The heat? You aren’t bleeding on the floor this time, that’s the only thing I’m sure of.” He blew out a breath, then added “I’ve got a tin of mints in my pocket.” Even if it didn’t help ground John, covering up the stink could only be a good thing.

The taller man nodded distractedly. “Hmm, yes. We’ll keep that in reserve; let’s see where talking to him can get us. We use our plan.” He placed himself carefully in John’s line of sight, trying to make eye contact. “John. John Watson.” He kept his voice low, his movements slow, watching for any sign of recognition. “John, listen to me. There is no sniper. You’re in London. We’re at a crime scene, all of us together. Greg is here, we’re all safe. Look at me, John.” After the incident last autumn, Greg would never have guessed Sherlock capable of such a measured response. But the tall man stepped easily into his designated task in the plan they’d devised, trying to bring John back into his right mind. Greg hoped this would work, desperately didn’t want to have his last-ditch assignment become necessary. Calling a response team, the resultant hospitalization and evaluations for the man they loved, was nowhere on his bucket list, even if he was the only person John trusted to make that choice. Sherlock would never have been able to judge when best to call, but persistence he could do and he did it now, keeping up a steady stream of reassurance. “John. We’re in London. Greg called us to a crime scene. It’s a bad one, John, and it triggered a flashback. I know you’re frightened but you’re here with me, with our Greg, and we’re all safe. Look, there’s Greg. Here’s Sherlock. Look at me, John.”

The hazel eyes focused on Sherlock’s lips, his nose, taking in his face one sliver at a time before finally making eye contact. John blinked, shook his head, struggled for focus.

“Good, John. I think we should go outside, don’t you? Can I touch you, help you stand up?” 

The care-worn face hardened into soldier mode again. “No! Nobody goes out that door until we’ve cleared the sniper. Murray, be ready to get Williams under cover.” John’s body was tense with determination, flooded with adrenaline and completely focused on a duty long since discharged. Then he spun, right hand clasping his left shoulder with a terrible cry. 

“John! There is _no sniper_. You’re safe, with me, in London. Look at me now, John. Nobody is shooting at us, there are no snipers. I’m going to take your arm now, John.” Long fingers closed around the good elbow, firm enough to be felt but never squeezing. John’s other arm hung limp, until his whole body sagged brokenly. 

“Stand up now, John. Stand up and we’ll go home.” Under Lestrade’s worried gaze the long body slowly unfolded itself, somehow not looming over the soldier while still sheltering him from enemies only he could see. A groan shuddered through pale lips. “Please, God, let me live.”

Hearing this fervent plea, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a few slow heartbeats. Greg resisted the urge to gather both men into his arms and whisk them away from here, instead opening his overalls and reaching into his pocket for a red-and-white tin. As he fumbled it open the smell of peppermint washed over the fetid room. Sherlock deftly plucked it up and brought it to John’s face. “John. Breathe, John. Tell me what you smell.” 

“I...don’t. I can’t.” John was gasping short agonized pants through clenched teeth, unheeded tears sliding down his face. 

“Yes, you CAN. Deep breath in now, come on, John.” Lestrade doubted anyone else would have identified the frantic worry in those words, or noticed the tension in the fingers holding John’s arm. “Tell me what you smell.” 

John was sobbing now, white faced and shaking. A lifetime passed in each keening gasp, each choking inhale, but that low murmur never faltered, walking a razors edge between support and demand. Lestrade numbered every tear, every gasp, an accounting of the debt owed to suffering and fear. Then John rasped out, “I smell peppermint.”

“Yes, good. John, look at me. Who am I?”

“Sherlock. Oh, God. Sherlock. I’m...I can’t...did...”

Long arms wrapped around the broken man. “It’s alright, John. Something triggered a flashback. Lestrade was here, he cleared the room, nobody was hurt or in any danger. We’re going to go home now, alright?” He looked over at Greg. “Your presence is required here?” They hadn’t worked out the details of this happening while working a scene. Greg yearned to go home with them, but it simply wasn’t possible. 

“Yeah, afraid so. Look, I’ll call a cab...and I’ll come as soon as I’m able, you know that, right?”

“I do know that. And so does John. We’ll see you soon.” He offered the mints back to Lestrade, pocketed them when told to keep them handy just in case, and escorted their beloved out of the room.

Greg knew what came next: hot shower, sweet tea, a warm and darkened bedroom and the familiar scents of home. John would be in exhausted sleep in the middle of the bed by the time he arrived, Sherlock keeping silent vigil until they were all together again. Morning would bring the inevitable fallout of therapists, phone calls, and appointments but first there would be cradling arms protecting all that was most dear throughout the dark night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Small_Hobbit for her beta work. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> And we all know I don't own any of these guys, right? No disrespect intended, no profit made.


End file.
